


Frames: After the Chantry

by Earl Grey Warden (cuemusic)



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fem Hawke - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuemusic/pseuds/Earl%20Grey%20Warden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A breakdown of the thoughts that occurred immediately after the Chantry's explosion. Switching between Hawke, Varric, Anders/Justice - with flashbacks included from all parties.  </p><p>Chapter 1: Hawke's Eyes, approx. 2600 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

The…occurrence…had been spectacular. Hawke couldn’t deny that.

Usually explosions created unsightly holes in things…yawning pores outlined in torn seams and irregular burn marks. Like the aftermath of a fist punching through tightened canvas…if the fist had been on fire.

_This however…_ Hawke’s brow crinkled.                             

Twin beams – columns of red white light – each almost half the size of the chantry – shot upward, straight upward – no hesitation.

_Cleaner._ Would she say it was cleaner? Her backbone felt chilled – no. Her backbone was frozen solid. _Was ‘cleaner’ the right word?_

Horizontally, thinner beams emerged…creating a grid. For an explosion, it was surprisingly measured – the tidiness of its geometry nicely tempering the ghastliness of its destruction. 

“ _Emerged_ ” wasn’t the right word. More like it… _expanded_. The pillars of electricity shot upward, and horizontally, _expanded_ outward – bursting through the walls of Kirkwall’s grandest mausoleum. And its center of worship.

The force was met with no resistance…the walls were – and then were not. _How strange._ Hawke realized that this was actually the first time she’d ever seen the Chantry yield. _How amicable of them. Perhaps there is hope for Kirkwall after all._

And suddenly Hawke was dizzy with nausea. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before…A cyclone of sickness, swirling and wishing and washing itself to every corner of her interior. The tips of her fingers squirmed with as much a desire to vomit as her stomach did.

But she didn’t vomit. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even breathe.

Instead she found herself transported to an evening that occurred a few years previously. An “important” evening…a dinner attended by some of “Orlais’s finest”. The seneschal had explained that the tradition was tied to the time when Kirkwall was under Orlesian occupation. The annual visit was a bit like a magister taking a stroll through a labor camp…Sort of a quirky holiday. After Kirkwall established independence, the tradition continued – under the characteristically thin Orlesian façade of civility. You didn't have to look hard to catch an Orlesian noble salivating over Kirkwall's continual descent into the sewers.

As “The Champion” – Hawke was to be in attendance that year. _To be in attendance_ …that's how it was written. She wasn't invited – she was informed – mere hours before the event. _How thoughtful though, to keep her in the loop._

Accompanying this proclamation of attendance was the dress she “was to wear”. A horrible, bust-enhancing, waist-diminishing dress that - as Varric put it – “oozed frivolity like a dead spider oozed…whatever the hell it is they ooze.” The silken bodice was especially troubling. Its unyielding silk quartered her air supply – forcing her breathing to take the form of little gasps. Anything deeper than that, and the dress’s stitching would creak in protest.

She should've feigned her way out of it. Or worn a different dress. But as nauseating as the ensemble was – it still made her own small collection of “finery” look like paper-doll clothing. Anything of hers would stick out scandalously. And surely Hawke, defender of Kirkwall – conqueror of the Arishok – could manage a night of relative discomfort…if not for the sake of her city, at least for the sake of her budget. The title of “Champion” came with no official salary, after all…and Hawke had a full repertoire of employees to, well, employ. So she wore the dress. And if it had just been the dress, she would have been able to manage it without too much distress – but nobody had warned her about the mask.

But then, why would they. In retrospect, it was an obvious trap.

The mask was given at the door – a welcome favor for “Serah Hawke” – a favor accepted with a polite nod. Upon entering the ballroom, the Champion found that everyone had masked themselves – and without thinking, she followed suit. Some part of her was even relieved that her face would be hidden – perhaps she could let down her guard a little. But then she tried taking a breath…and Hawke realized what they'd done. Breathing was nearly impossible through her nose now – but breathe through her nose she must…otherwise...

The potential humiliation flashed through her suffocated mind…she was one breath away from giving the Orlesian Nobles exactly what they wanted – A Ferelden's flesh bursting crudely out of Orlesian sophistication – A picture perfect example of the best of Kirkwall.

The masks were enchanted to be taken off at midnight – she didn't have enough air to argue. It was an evening of control. An infuriatingly silent night – no trying words, no exuberant gestures of hello, no taking more than a sip of wine at a time. The claustrophobia made every inch of her skin itch with a need to breathe…to move. Never before had Hawke felt so… _contained_.

Eventually, midnight arrived, and her mask fell to the floor. She excused herself immediately…making it back to her room with her bodice – and dignity – intact. Once alone, she didn't even try to undo the intricate Orlesian knotting... instead watching herself in the mirror as she flexed her arms and expanded her rib cage in deep, satisfying, quenching breaths. The effect was immediate. The fabric of the bodice disintegrated in her body’s wake – her flesh materializing without hesitation. No resistance.

That's how the chantry-destroying light-expansion looked to Hawke. Like a someone deciding that they'd had enough of their form-fitting bodice.

Hawke continued to watch the lights. Chantry rubble was lifted to the top of the electrical beams with the rhythm of someone taking a deep breath. Impossibly high, it swirled for a beat above them all.

_What goes up..._

Hawke's silent musing was answered with the explosion's finale – its exhalation – the boom. The floating burning rubble-storm overhead expanded with new speed while the beams extended beyond themselves – either upwards or outwards – before disappearing into the all.

Hawke watched as Chantry remains shot downward around her scope of vision. Flaming, magical debris – falling, everywhere – all over this – her city.

What a show.

In that immediate moment – the city was silent. Everyone was still.

Hawke spent that moment looking at the blank space on Kirkwall's horizon. Her nausea took on a new intensity – and a horrible sinking feeling monopolized all sensation from her knees down.

Because nothing was happening. Nothing was replacing the space. The chantry...and its former inhabitants...were gone. Exploded over the city in a tidy circle. What the hell.

Someone said something.

Hawke was thinking about that damned dress again. That night in her room, after the party. There had been ripped bodice pieces everywhere...well not everywhere. Just around her, around her in a circle.

Someone was yelling. Hawke was watching someone's mouth make noises.

In retrospect, destroying the dress was a bit embarrassing. What a dramatic thing to do...to act like the bodice was her prison, and her breathing an act of daring escape. As if the petty Orlesian prank actually had anything to do with Hawke's freedom. Breathing deeply, her torso now covered just in a white under-wrap, Hawke had felt incredibly silly. In the mirror, she winced as she examined the petulant inelegance she had created in her tantrum. _Hmm._ She'd thought. _Champion indeed._ Defeated, she groaned and laid – face first – outstretched on the carpet. She was too exhausted to do anything else.

Somebody was hiding their face. Somebody was praying.

Hawke slept on the ground that night. When she awoke late the next morning, she found that her quilt had inexplicably draped itself over top of her, while her pillow had somehow managed to find its way beneath her head. Next to her, dressed and obviously awake for some time, was someone laying on his back, head propped up by his own pillow, idly levitating bits of her ruined bodice in the space directly above his face.

Constellations. He had been making constellations.

Somebody was having trouble forming their words.

When he saw she was awake, he threw the silk pieces to aside, and turned to face her.

"So...I guess the dress was one of those 'single use' items?" He smirked and plucked a piece of stray silk from her bangs.

Hawke tried to roll her eyes in mock annoyance...but the friendly tickle of his hand in her hair left her glowing – and she smiled despite herself. She was too sleepy to be clever, so she went with playful –childishly pressing her hand into his face while he squinted his eyes and tried to bat her away. Eventually she let up, allowing herself to roll into him. She felt his hands hold her waist through the quilt – and electricity guided her as she laced her arms through his.

He spoke into her forehead. "I heard about the mask...ridiculous how long you made yourself wear that thing...learn to disagree."

Still wrapped in the comfort of the morning, Hawke mumbled an affirmative. He responded with a squeeze in mock exasperation.

"See? Again, with the yesses! Can't you say No..?"

She shook her head: 'No'.

There was a pause.

"Well...now I don't know what you mean. Always so contrary, Hawke..." He squeezed her again. She felt his heartbeat.

They had resettled into their napping entanglement for a few moments – when Hawke reopened her eyes to peek a glance at him. His eyes were closed, but she didn't think he was asleep. She liked seeing him like this from time to time...he likely was still thinking, but his relaxed brow let her know that he was not thinking too darkly.

Hawke caught a whiff of sage from his hair – and she reveled in the serenity it brought her. He had started washing it again on his own...and it meant the world to her, to see him drop even the smallest vestment of neglect. Eating regularly. Joining her at the tavern. All of it meant the world to her.

Of course, she could never tell him that. He didn't need to know just how low her expectations for him were.

Someone was staring at their feet.

 

Closing her eyes again, Hawke was almost asleep before she remembered to ask her usual question:

"Are you okay, Anders?"

There was a pause.

Anders.

Somebody was spinning toward the crowd now. They were speaking loudly.

Still embracing him, Hawke felt his body tense as he searched for a response. _Are you okay..._

"I wish you wouldn't..." But his voice trailed off. From experience, he knew Hawke would get her answer. So instead he said "I'm fine." His tone was gentle, but he loosened himself from her.

This was to be expected. He didn't like 'those' questions. Although sometimes Hawke wasn't sure which 'He' she was actually distressing. But it didn't matter. She would always ask, she would always make him think about it. It wasn't about the answer. It was about him knowing she cared about the answer.

She would always ask.

Somebody let out a sob.

As an olive branch for wrecking the moment, Hawke offered to him what he once called ‘a miracle of words’...a phrase she always meant.

"I love you, Anders."

Oh Maker.

Anders.

Not Anders.

Somebody was pointing at her. Somebody was screaming to be heard.

Anders had relented that morning, allowing himself to bring Hawke close to him once more. "That's not wise." He said distantly, his voice hollowed. Hawke's hand swam through the quilt, searching for his. Once found, Hawke traced his wrist and the distinct bones that formed ridges up to his knuckles. His skin was softer there – and it was never difficult for Hawke to gather and pinch some of his flesh between the nails of her index finger and thumb. The pinch was always hard and quick – enough to make his body jerk once in response. Enough to leave a temporary mark. Then she would softly stroke the wound she had created, before threading her fingers through his, and holding on tight. It was Hawke's little way of saying:

"Shut up, Anders."

Anders.

Not this.

Please.

Not Anders.

Hawke was returning to the present. The chaos around her was beginning to move in real time again. She started to hear the words she was saying.

"The Circle didn't do this, Meredith." _Didn't do what?_ Hawke realized she was talking to the distorted face of the Knight-Commander. Hawke knew what Meredith would want to do. She glanced at the First Enchanter.

Orsino's eyes were wide, reflecting Kirkwall's maker-less skyline. The city was on fire. Then he spun to the person Hawke that couldn't yet accept was there. The person she was praying would wake her from this nightmare by plucking a piece of fragmented silk from her hair. And then Hawke would tell him she had had the most horrible dream. And then she would ask if he was okay. And he would deflect. But it would be okay. Things would get easier. All that mattered was that they were together – as long as that stayed true Hawke knew everything else would fall into place. He needed time. Anders just needed time. Hawke would give him time, and Kirkwall would get better, and...

"As Kirkwall's Knight-Commander, I hereby invoke the Right of Annulment. All Circle Mages are to be executed, immediately."

_Right_...everything would be _fine_...Carver will spontaneously recover from the taint in his blood and that damn chip on his shoulder. Maretharri will reveal that she orchestrated the entire thing with Merrill and the eluvian in order to prove a point. Bartrand will turn out to not be the same Bartrand behind the atrocities in the mansion, and the abandonment in the Deep Roads. Fenris' sister will turn out to have been the thrall of some blood mage, and once recovered return to give Fenris a family. And Mother, Bethany, and Father will come home with the most _hilarious_ story about how they weren't actually dead.

Everything would be fine.

"The Circle had nothing to do with this!" Hawke could tell, from the edge in his voice, and the precision in his gaze, that Orsino was recovering his logic much quicker than she was herself.

"The people will want blood, and I intend to give it to them." Meredith's eyes shined with withheld tears and concentrated zeal. "And Champion, I expect your help in setting this right; in restoring the order that Mage – _your_ Mage – destroyed."

" _We_ need you Champion! She requests your help in the _slaughter_ of _innocents_...hasn't there been enough of that today already?" Orsino sneered at a person Hawke pretended wasn't there.

_Did he mean the slaughter of 'innocents' or slaughter of 'innocence'?_...Hawke supposed now wasn't the time to ask for clarification.

"You have to choose." Who said _that?_ No one.

_You can't spell 'familiar' without spelling 'liar’._

"I support the mages." Someone proclaimed this boldly – someone with Hawke's voice, using Hawke's mouth, standing where Hawke stood at that moment. _Could've been anyone..._ she thought distantly.

There was discord among her companions. Aveline wanted to help restore order. Fenris didn't want to help mages. Surprise, surprise. _Why are they all looking at me?_

She could have been anyone.

Again she heard someone use her voice to support the mages.

Orsino and Meredith responded in turn.

" _Thank_ the _Maker_..."

"You're a _fool_ , Champion."

Hawke heard:

"Thank the Maker you're a fool, Champion."

_Please – Call me Hawke. My friends call me Hawke._

Hawke could have been anyone.

And then she was fighting Templars. Although her tactical precision seemed a conscious effort – Hawke could have been a million leagues away. Only vaguely did she notice how ruthless she was being. Blood boiled around her, others' death becoming her fire – her sustenance. Enemy slaves exploded after killing their brethren. The smell was hot and sweet.

_You can't spell ‘slaughter’ without spelling ‘laughter.’_

When it ended, she saw that her companions had all remained – their faith in her outweighing their better judgement. Her heart ached for them. She was just some person. Oh if only they knew.

Orsino quickly snapped into action. He would go to the gallows, to warn the others. She should make her way there as well. He again sneered at someone who was being kept pointedly out of Hawke's line of vision.

"I'll leave you to deal with your...friend."

And then it was just Hawke, her circle of associates, and this person that she _really_ wished wasn't here right now.

Anders.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2: Varric's, approx. 2700 words

_Damn._ For years Varric had all but openly begged fate to cast him a part in a really great story...he didn't want the lead role, he really didn't – he just wanted a part. To be a witness to something spectacular. He wanted to experience a truth incredible enough to be worth writing down...and perhaps more importantly, he wanted to know that such truths were possible. To know that history could be grand – without any embellishments.

It was a wish, but a passive one – one that grew less important with each passing year. Circumstance had aged him. Friendships had matured him. Honestly, Varric hadn't seriously thought about his requested stake in history since sending Bartrand to the Sanitarium.

That is, until a few moments ago...when he heard Hawke's plea answered in the form of an electric explosion – its light and height perfectly befitting destroyed divinity...yes. That was when Varric knew his half-prayers had cruelly been heard.

_"Anders – what did you do?"_

That question. Hawke's desperation...her voice warped by a combination of sinking realization and absolute denial. Varric shuddered and shook it away. Here he was, being haunted by a memory that had barely finished happening...What a damned good story. The kind people would _pay_ to read.

The kind that changed the world.

And Varric found he would give _anything_ to make it a less-good story...anything to make it just a little more mediocre.

Internally, he began to tweak the factors that had built up to this climax...de-sensationalizing the epicness of the "hero's journey"...

Maybe if Hawke hadn't been heir to an apostate love story...if her entire existence hadn't been contingent on Circle defiance. If Hawke had just been a run-of-the-mill champion. Yes...that would help. But he'd have to change Blon– the Mage – as well.

Obviously, in the rewrite of the story, Hawke wouldn't ‘be’...anything, with Anders.

For a second, the illusion was broken, and Varric took a moment to curse reality.

_Of course it would be Anders. Of course Hawke would find happiness, support, and...Maker's Breath...actual love in the tainted, renegade, possessed apostate....the one you introduced her to._

He shook it away.

Well...not in his story. He would scratch out their romance completely. Maybe they wouldn't even meet Anders...Varric paused. No...they needed to meet him. He got them the maps into the Deep Roads. Nobody else had those...so okay, they had to meet him. But Hawke didn't have to _invite_ him...

A red flag shot up in Varric’s mind.

_If Anders hadn't come with them_... Carver would have died of the taint. _If that had happened_...Varric's stomach wheezed and somersaulted, remembering back to the moment they had returned to the surface...one Hawke short. No one besides Anders had dared to have much confidence in Carver's fate. Varric had been... _absolutely terrified_ that his get-rich-quick scheme had killed the brother of the first friend he had made in a long, long time.

And then...if Carver _had_ died, Varric never would have been able to start forgiving his own brother. Varric cursed himself again. Damnit. The only reason he didn't kill Bartrand was because Blon – he caught himself – was because Anders had been there to temporarily make him sane.

Varric was forced to concede that Anders was important to their story. If he changed something about the Mage...it would have to be about the character himself, not his role. Varric would make him...not possessed, for one. And he would make him more of a prick. He'd be someone who _didn't_ spend his waking hours in a free clinic, and his nighttime hours smuggling mages out of the gallows...rescuing innocents from being turned into human furniture.

_Damnit._ He stopped trying. This wasn't a story, and he couldn't change it.

[Room for description meander]

Hawke was holding a dagger, looking at the ground with a lifeless expression.

Varric didn't want this. Hawke was so...damned _decent_. And Anders...Anders had been...well, he didn't know what to call it now.

A quick scan of his compatriots' faces revealed that they too knew what Hawke was presently contemplating. And were equally troubled by it. He looked to his friend again.

Without a flicker of expression, Hawke began to idly twirl the dagger's crooked tip into the center of her palm. This was not too strange. It was an idiosyncrasy left-over from her time as a smuggler – back when she still made an effort to conceal her magic. Apparently she'd found comfort in knowing her blade was sharp.

Varric chanced a glance at Anders – who sat hunched over on a crate, a short distance away.

_I'd want a sharp blade too_...Varric thought, trying hard to calm the sudden rage surging inside him.

[Room for memory]

Examining the landscape as a whole, Varric couldn't help noting the noonday sun's role in the scene's distinction. The light created was severe, and harshly polarizing – Transforming the beings known as "Hawke" and "Anders" into mere shapes..."Hawke" and "Anders"-esque shapes – sure – but shapes nonetheless. It was similar to the simplification artists tended toward when tasked with epic creations...a reduction in form to suit the medium. They had become silhouettes cast on a yellowed backdrop. Figures chiseled into a woodcut.

It was like a panel in a tapestry. An illustration in a book. _If only..._

His eyes refocused in on Hawke’s hand. Her self-injurious quirk was going on too long. The twirl of the dagger had become more like a twist – and Hawke's eyes were closed in what looked like concentration. She was drawing a lot of blood.

_Shit._ Varric's first impulse was to exchange meaningful glances with Aveline. But these efforts proved fruitless. It seemed that – for the first time in recent memory – the Knight was unwilling to engage in telepathic consult. Instead, her authoritative prowess was being channeled into an intense glare to the right…away from Hawke’s twisting dagger, and her dwarven compatriot’s increasingly wary attempts at communication.

After about twenty seconds of this, Varric gave up – his chest flaring in annoyance.   _Fine, Captain...I'll leave you to your thoughts..._

Turning now to his left, he attempted to catch the eyes of Isabela. Although not as competent as Aveline, Isabela’s ability to confidently approach Hawke was quite impressive.

Varric nearly jumped when she looked back, but that was not so strange. Isabela’s gaze, when returned, often managed to startle him. It was so unexpectedly penetrating…and this time it seemed especially so. Two tiger-eye stones steeped in a dusky rouge…golden, glowing – reflecting a storm of radiance and dark.

But any revelation of depth soon disappeared beneath a hastily constructed version of the pirate’s typical expression – a mask of flippancy, a flirtatious façade of confidence. Winking, she quickly phased into one of her infamous pantomiming routines – a lurid display complete with crude hand gestures. Although willing to craft his own mimicry of smiling amusement in reply – Varric did not go so far as to spare Isabela from the disappointment weighing on his eyebrows.

His false grin melted when he returned to Hawke’s continuing exhibition of self-harm.

Varric watched his friend for a couple moments longer, humoring the improbability that Hawke would eventually stop on her own.

Then he sighed.

_This one's on you, Varric..._

He opened his mouth – when Anders spoke.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself. I took a spirit into my body and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the Justice all mages deserve."

Varric could have strangled Anders for speaking first. And from his soapbox, no less.

"...If I pay for this with my life, so be it. Perhaps then Justice could be free."

At least he'd gotten Hawke to stop twisting the dagger. Opening her eyes, she removed the point from her flesh and smoothly settled her gaze on the back of Anders' head.

She walked forward, until she was standing right behind him. She stared at him for a moment more, before finally speaking:

"Did that spirit tell you to do this?" It almost didn't sound like Hawke's voice...so lacking it was of any warmth or familiarity. But did he perhaps detect a...a decimal of hope? _Maker I hope not...Hah. You're hoping for no hope. Maybe she's hoping you're not hoping she's not hoping..._

"No." Anders answered, still rocking back and forth. "When we merged, he ceased to be. His thoughts are my own."

Hawke's face was briefly overtaken with an expression of disdainful skepticism. _Bullshit_ it read.

Varric's rage grew a little colder, a little harder - a little more permanent. _It's probably best none of us hope for a while._

Hawke moved in front of Anders. She wasn't looking at him directly yet - but seemed to be gearing up for it. She rolled her neck and shook out her damaged hand - as if just now noticing the pain of her wound. This didn't last long though - soon Hawke held her hand still and watched as it was enveloped in a familiar ribbon of white-blue light.

Varric knew that ribbon. At this point, they all did - all too well. Anders was...doing what he did - healing the nearest wound, likely without a second thought.

Hawke was momentarily caught off guard by this development. She opened and closed her replenished fist – expression torn between pure puzzlement and the peace that accompanied pain relief.  She seemed to reach a decision, and turned toward Anders – the healed hand outstretched and open, the other hand outstretched and still grasping the dagger.

She brought the point to her palm, and quickly rushed the blade across its surface – leaving a thin, but deep, cut of red running from her wrist to the tip of her ring finger.

Anders saw what Hawke had done...and his eyes shifted uncomfortably, confused. He looked like a child second guessing an answer in front of the class. But Anders tried again – closing his eyes and sending a new ribbon of light to sew together the torn flesh presented to him.

But as he did, Hawke's dagger kept up – chasing the ribbon's work with a deeper, thicker cut than its predecessor.

Anders' eyes had twitched and opened, likely sensing that his work was being undone. His forehead crinkled, and he managed a word –

"Don't - "

But Hawke's glare, once Anders finally met it, smothered out whatever else he'd meant to say. He lowered his eyes back to her hand, and mutely watched her carve a second deep stripe into her palm – diagonal to the first.

The cuts were very deep. Hawke turned her red "X" downward, and everyone was still while Hawke's blood flowed freely into a puddle at Anders' feet.

_Hmm. Very freely._

As the crimson puddle's margins steadily expanded, Varric realized what was happening...Hawke was _making_ herself lose blood – willing it out of herself faster than it ever would flow naturally. _Ah, the 'Forbidden School'_...one of Hawke and Anders few points of contention. _She's screwing with him._

Hawke did not make a deal with a demon...and so her use of blood magic was fairly rudimentary. She didn't even use it that often...But it was enough to invite the conflicted judgement of Anders' chagrin. Of course, after today, Anders really wouldn't have a leg to stand on...

Varric often forgot how damned powerful his Mage friends were. He once pointed this out once to Blond – to Anders – noting that the Chantry's fear of mages like him, Hawke, and Merrill was fairly reasonable. Anders had shaken his head.

"Don't you see though? What we all have in common? _None of us are in a Circle._ The Chantry's system is set up so as to allow only the most powerful of mages to go uncaptured. Merrill and Hawke never had phylacteries made – and mine has been obscured by Justice’s interference – possibly also by the corruption in my blood. These are not normal circumstances…successful apostates _have_ to to be powerful.”

Anders took a swig from his drink, and leaned back in his chair.

“Think about Malcolm Hawke. That crazy warden elf Velanna I told you about. Hell, even the mysterious witch in that pendant – and don't forget the Chasind apostate who helped the Hero of Ferelden. The best mages almost always end up out of the Circle…if they were ever even in one to begin with.”

“So you're ranked up there with the Witch of the Wilds, eh Blondie?”

Anders blushed and leaned forward again in his chair. “Well…maybe Justice is.”

Hawke cut in then – rolling her eyes and placing her Wicked Grace hand face down on the tavern table.

“Anders is too modest. Do you know how rare spirit healers are? Rarer than blood mages…that's for sure. Justice didn't teach him how to do _that_. Before running off with Justice, Anders had become quite the scholar…sought after for his experience with Awakened darkspawn. _And..._ by the way…do you know who his Commander in Amaranthine was? The one who recruited him into the Wardens?”

“ _Hawke_ …” Anders tried to intervene – but Varric, grinning, raised his hand to silence him – looking at Anders in an expression of mock shock. “Anders _please…_ your _love_ is speaking….”

Hawke smirked, and took a swallow of wine before continuing.

“Well…his commander was a Cousland… _the_ Cousland…you know, the one who married King Alistair? The one who, if you recall, did a little thing that involved _Killing_ an _Archdemon_ and _Ending_ the _Blight_?”

Varric choked on his ale. “The _Hero of Ferelden_? _The_ Grey Warden?”

Hawke nodded, her face resigned in a knowing expression. “The one and only.” She quickly glanced toward Anders with a teasing smile. “In fact…it was the Hero who gave Anders Ser-Pounce-a-Lot.”

“No _shit_.” Varric spun to Anders. “Blondie – why the _hell_ would you keep that to yourself?”

Anders groaned and shook his head. “People pigeon-hole Commander Cousland enough already. She wasn't even that much of a Warden…it's not like she knew what she was getting into, or held any political power within the warden hierarchy. She didn't have a choice...basically she was conscripted.”

Varric stared at him in amazement.

Anders pushed forward. “ _Plus_ …she never acted like the “Hero” or whatever…” Anders chuckled, as though remembering something. “Although – hah – she did often ask why everyone seemed to forget she was queen… _much less glamorous than promised_ …that's what she said after Templars tried to recapture me…forcing us to engage in a fight to the death.” Anders cocked his head and looked off in thought. “Now that I'm thinking about it…I guess I do have some pretty good stories.”

Varric shook his head in bewilderment. “Damnit Blondie…”

"Come on Varric…when you tell Hawke's story, surely you'll leave a little wiggle room in the truth for the sake of privacy…”

“Sure, maybe…but I'm just saying, you told us you were possessed by a ‘Spirit of Justice’ within our first few conversations. Mentioning that you also palled around with the Hero might have given you a _tad_ more legitimacy…”

Then the three of them laughed.

Back in the present, Varric noted how Hawke's arm and Anders' face were draining of color in time with each other – both soon equally ashen and corpse-like.

He never exactly thought of the two mages as similar to one another. Hawke was quieter than Anders. Wiser. She picked her battles carefully. She didn't let many see her cards. This while Anders was desperate and impatient...too often at the mercy of his surroundings. But here they were…and he could see that at the very least, the two stayed in sync.

Once it seemed she had nothing left to bleed, Hawke stopped holding her arm outward – instead bringing it close to herself while she turned her back to Anders again...silently creating her own – much weaker – version of the healing ribbon. It seemed to do little more than seal the wound...her arm remained discolored and a little stiff afterward. She had lost a lot of blood. Varric wondered how much it would affect her spell casting – The day was still young, after all. Hawke straightened, and resumed her passionless questioning.

"So...you start a massacre to prove a point?" Varric could tell she was tired.

Anders' eyes were plastered on the small sea of blood Hawke had left at his feet. "I'm not 'proving a point' – I'm changing a world..." His voice trembled as he continued.

Varric tried again exchanging glances with Isabela, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. However, he did get a good enough look to realize that the pirate’s eyes were not smoked in rouge, but in insomnia.

They were all tired.

"This had to happen...I thought you of all people would understand." Anders’ tone cracked erratically. He sounded insane.

Varric almost laughed. _He thinks Hawke, ‘of all people’ would understand...Hawke's not going to like that_...

His friend's glower did not disappoint. Eyes closing in rage, lips tightening into a furious line...Varric watched Hawke’s grip on the dagger intensify, turning the knuckles of her uninjured hand as white as its bled counterpart. She stood still for a long while.

Her eyes reopened, and she seemed to be undergoing a strenuous effort to remain in control. Hawke glanced in the direction of Varric and the others.

"Thoughts?"

Varric waited to speak last. Ideally, one of his companions would make an argument strong enough for him to piggy-back off of – but so far no one had spoken with much conviction. Sure, a general preference maybe...but nothing compelling.

_What a crew of disappointments. Once again, the weight of good writing has fallen entirely on your shoulders, Varric._

A moving glint of white armor irritated Varric's peripheral vision. _Oh right. Maker forbid Prince Cheekbones not speak._

“If I'd been in the chantry today, would you be waffling? You know what must be done!” His usually marble calm Starkhaven accent was strained with adrenaline – but not enough to warp away Varric's overall disdain for it.

The dwarf sighed, shifting his gaze elsewhere. _Fine._ Sebastien had just, technically, spoken with a degree of conviction in favor of Blon…of _Anders_ ’ death.

But…well. Varric couldn't exactly condone the reasoning that if Sebastien had been…blown up…Hawke would not hesitate in serving Justice up a taste of his own medicine.

Also… _waffling_ …a shudder of deep seated annoyance zapped through Varric's system.

Any other phrasing would have annoyed Varric less. But of course, Sebastien had insisted on soiling Varric's previously innocuous nickname for Hawke. _Waffles_ …something they'd made up while hunting Orlesians and Wyverns. Sure, he basically never used it. But now that it was ruined, he knew he'd be impulsed to on a regular basis.

Eventually Varric realized it was his turn to speak…the silence weighing on him, expectantly.

Varric took a breath.

He wanted to tell Hawke to let Anders live. He wanted to tell her it was okay to preserve one comfort for herself. He wanted to forgive Anders, to undergo whatever mental conditioning was necessary in order to get things back to the way they were. If Varric could just…say the right thing. Just grit his teeth and tell Hawke what she wanted to hear…what she needed to hear.

But he couldn't.

"I think...I think I'm sick of mages and Templars."

Hawke's shoulders stiffened, but she said nothing. _Damnit._ He'd failed her. He couldn't tell Hawke he wanted Anders dead, because…well, that was wrought with consequence. But he couldn't lie for her benefit, because it would also benefit Anders – who he currently despised. So he did nothing, and abandoned his friend.

Like Anders, he had forced the decision to be entirely her own.

Standing alone, betrayed, a dagger in her hand – Hawke's eyes developed just the slightest bit of sheen. It was barely noticeable – but Varric saw it. And it killed him. He hadn't seen tears permeate Hawke’s stoicism since her mother died. _Damnit._ _Damnit Damnit Damnit._ Varric's face flushed with shame. _Just a lie, just a little lie. All she needed was a lie. She never needed anything before now. Why is this the time you couldn't lie?_

Hawke blinked away any sheen, and took a deep breath.

"Anders."


	3. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 1700 words

Her voice made his heart hurt. Convictions and decisions began to unravel at their seams. Memories were escaping too. How was this happening? He was losing control again.

_She's doing this. She's manipulating you. I feel it._

She was hurting him. How was he letting this happen? Everything had gone according to plan...until she spilt her own blood. Until he saw her bleeding.

_She's toying with you._

He couldn't fathom why the 'love' would do such a thing. Or why it affected him so much. She didn't let him heal her...she undid his magic and replaced it with her own. And it had been blood magic...he had learned to spot these things, having been a Mage so long. Could she have hypnotized him?

_Traitor._

Light boiled inside him - impossibly hot and cold at once. Blasted. Another 'physical' reaction.

_Because she's hurting him._ This boiling was...rage. Yes, that was it. He'd...yes, he'd felt it before. Disgust furled his essence. Infiltrated by a demon's poison. How...infuriating. Rage begets rage. Humans were so...corruptible.

For a time, Justice had been convinced that there was something wrong with the one called Anders...a unique dysfunction intrinsic to the human's mental and physiological workings. It was simply inconceivable to the spirit that all living beings had such an immense variety of...well, _variables_ with which to contend. Fears, dreams, wants, regrets...melded into the folds of memory after memory – it was practically infinite. How could a singular being – finite in size, shape, proportion, and lifespan – simultaneously be the container and creator of infinity? Surely Anders was exceptional in his capacity for simultaneous interpretation, consolidation, and filtration of external stimuli...

Anders used to meet ponderings of this type with a peculiar denial. He insisted that he was no different than any other host Justice might have joined. The denial itself wasn't strange...Justice had learned that spirits were wrong about a great many things since leaving the fade. It was Anders' vehemence that stood out – denial faintly tinted with pride. It took many repetitions of the exchange before Justice realized that Anders was flattered by the idea that his mind was complex enough to flabbergast a spirit - even if he continued to insist he was no more complex than anyone else.

The exchange became, for a time, a bit of a game between the two of them. Justice truly did remain impressed with Anders' mind – but his continual reference to it had less to do with his awe, and more to do with his enjoyment of Anders' reaction. He liked seeing the Mage take pride in something. It made Justice...happy. And Anders met Justice's intent – once he realized it – with an appreciative, good-natured bemusement. He explained to Justice that it was a very "friendship-ish" thing to do, and that he was glad their partnership was at least "kind of" functional.

What Anders hadn't said – but what Justice still managed to hear – was that he found relief in Justice treating him as a separate entity.

For years Anders would entertain the spirit's overflowing compliments with his own, exaggerated, false modesty. Although their "partnership" became confused and stressed at times – Justice, once calm, could defuse the remaining tension by engaging Anders in their shared joke.

Nowadays though, these thoughts were met with silence. Anders had long ago grown tired arguing with a voice in his head about "normality". Ever since the near-disaster with Ella, Anders didn't speak to Justice if he could possibly avoid it. It was also around then that Anders became involved with the Love. That had... _she_ had...complicated things further.

Ah, Memory...an aspect of existence which remained a struggle. It had not been easy, leaving the Fade. The victim of a demon's wrath, Justice was unceremoniously ripped from the spiritual world, and stranded in the physical – his essence absorbed into the nearest corpse. The spirit's punishment for seeking a village's vindication.

Originally, it had been difficult for all the reasons one might expect...he missed the Fade, he confused the humans, he lived in a rotting corpse...all inconvenient, but none unprecedented. But that soon changed.

While Justice possessed the body of the one called Kristoff, the original soul had – for the most part – completely departed. All that remained was a variety of ethereal residue...a bed of triggerable stirrings – capable of reflecting the former inhabitant's strongest emotional associations. Its hold was relatively weak - great mysteries of love and loss were reduced to mere echoes of true experience. But Justice did not know this. At the time, it was quite overwhelming for the spirit. He was at the mercy of his body's former self – constantly haunted by reminders of the being he never was.

Because of this, Justice had no illusions about the difficulty of sharing a living body. He knew it would be more difficult than it had been with a corpse. The host soul was sure to be...unruly at times – likely to be less dedicated, less urgent. Perhaps Anders' interest in Justice – and his cause – would wane...leaving the spirit stranded in another's soul – forced to watch, unable to act. The apostate, after all, seemed largely disinterested in the oppression of his kind.

The apathy _was_ puzzling. Anders was an individual of commendable intelligence and ability. Yet, unlike those of similar merit, Anders lacked any specified resolve or purpose. In the beginning, this baffled Justice. He could not fathom why someone talented would not act to fix what they knew to be broken.

So Justice studied Anders. He watched the Mage, and questioned him at every opportunity.

And after much observation, Justice decided that the oppression of Anders' life had left him functionally weak...he had lost any ability to rally ambition.

Anders didn't lack talent – but he might as well have.

Although this itself was unjust, the spirit could not deny that it made Anders a more desirable host. The mage's soul would likely be more open to Justice's...guidance. Anders needed focus – and Justice could provide that for him. A fair trade.

Justice should have been more cautious. Both he and Anders should have researched the potential repercussions more thoroughly. But Justice had been so desperate for an absolute...as he hadn't felt true conviction since leaving the fade.

It started with the Wardens.

The original Warden Commander of Amaranthine spared The Architect, and this was not right. The Architect had killed many innocents, and Justice would have him die for his actions. But the Commander was...persuasive. And had always been Just in the past. So the spirit listened.

First of all, the Commander pointed out, Justice had joined the Wardens to avenge the death of Kristoff – an injustice _the Mother_ committed, not The Architect.

_"The Architect wants to help defeat the Mother, Justice. Let him."_

Justice appreciated how the Commander appealed to his sense of logic before anything else. She made an argument which incorporated her plan as a tool to his own. Additionally, she had a point about there being tactical sense to keeping the Architect alive. He was an anomaly to his kind. Wouldn't it be safer to align oneself with an anomaly who is known – rather than risk facing the next unknown anomaly alone? If one Darkspawn had awoken independently, surely another was inevitable.

_"Better to take the thorny olive branch when it's offered - lest it never be offered again."_

So The Architect lived. And Justice had made peace with that. But the dissonance of the experience had...unsettled him.

He was similarly challenged by the elf...Velanna...who killed so many in the name of a crime committed by others. Like the Architect, she killed innocents – and, like The Architect, it was not just for her to live when her victims did not. However...the longer Justice traveled with the elf, the more complicated it became. She had created an injustice...but only because she had been a victim of injustice so long herself. The injustice committed against her people had not been corrected...so why should hers? Was it fair to demand that she die for murders committed under a false, but logical, pretense?

Velanna and the Commander introduced the spirit to ideas of fluidity, elasticity, and ambivalence. While Kristoff had introduced him to the sweetness of love, and the bitterness of envy. All of a sudden, Justice didn't know what he used to always know.

This new reality of ambiguous truth left only one issue unadulterated: Mages. Thedas oppresses Mages. The Chantry indoctrinates its citizens against an entire people – perpetuating a cycle of abuse, fear, and self-hatred. The Chantry take Mage children from their family, and send them to the Circle; the Circle take infants from their Mage mothers, and send them to the Chantry. Those who speak out are branded troublemakers – and risk undergoing the Rite of Tranquility.

After the original Warden Commander left Amaranthine – Justice began spending his free time learning more about the Chantry and Mages…Circles, Templar abuses, Lyrium addiction, etc. A lot of this involved talking to Anders. Justice found, if he inflected his words correctly, Anders could become rather impassioned in conversation. And Anders grew to appreciate the relief talking to Justice provided. It made him feel sane for running away so often. It made him worry about his friends still in the Circle.

He remembered how Anders' voice had cracked in passion when he attempted to explain the gravity of injustice associated with the Tranquil.

"Free thinkers, Mages who are devoted to the craft of magic – Mages brave enough to try and fight – _these_ are the Mages who become stripped of their mind! Imagine your friends, mindlessly enslaved to those that they once hated and feared…forced to endure humiliation after humiliation without any ability to say no… "

Anders looked at Justice then – his face contorted in frustration, his eyes blazing with wild incredulity – as if the weight of wrongness was dawning on the Mage all at once.

This affected Justice. It was that moment Justice decided that Anders truly _did_ care enough about the plight of mages to be a suitable host – together, they could partner against the prejudice rampant across Thedas. Justice stirred something permanent in Anders as well – an urgency he'd never felt before took hold of the apostate’s heart. With clarity and conviction, both saw the next step.


	4. Justice/Anders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Includes Karl Flashback.   
> Approx. 4000 words

But they miscalculated.

Justice assumed that, like his inhabitation of Kristoff, his thoughts and actions would reside exclusively within his essence, whose boundaries were understood. [If anything, Justice was most concerned about the possibility of Anders' apathy corrupting the urgency of Justice's need to act. He worried that in sharing a form with the live human, he would have only half the amount of mind within which to manifest and plan. It was possible that both Anders and Justice would come out weaker for the partnership.]

Instead, Anders’ weighty collection of experience overwhelmed the spirit – who felt every documented injustice simultaneously – with a blinding, fiery intensity.

_So much irreversible damage…so many scars._ He thought that Anders had been hammered into submission, but… _No_. It was a matter of survival, not thinking about what injustice had taken from him.

_Playing in the barn…everyone watching, friends watching…laughing with adolescent courage…but a fire started, and it was too big to keep a secret. Father saw…thought Maker was punishing him…he needed you gone. The Templars came…tall, sneering, righteous…hadn't felt hated before. Never saw mother again – taken away in chains…father’s look of relief…her look of absolute devastation. Yanked by the arm. Would be bruises the next day._

Injustice.

_Cold. Riding away from home. The back of the caravan is dark. Can't see anything…trying so hard to remember the sensation of every turn, so you can make it back again. So many turns though. Can't see anything…though._

_“What’s your name, Mage?” Driving guard asks._

_Voice snuffed out like a candle. Words numb in your throat. The terrain is harsh. You fidget in your chains. But say nothing._

_“Hey – what’s the kid’s name?”_

_“Forgot.”_

_“Surname?”_

_“Maker I don’t know.”_

_“Well I have to give the commander something…you know the complaints that come in when we drop nameless mages at the circle’s feet.”_

_“Yeah, yeah…Gregoir’ll get his name…” The guard’s breath stank of stale ale. He belched before continuing. “…ell...en de Mum was stallin, she said ome ing about her bein from ere, an er husband bein from Anderfels. Din the lout was dragged out, an I left fore seeing er cry.”_

_“Anderfels? Really? Well…that makes sense. He's dull enough to be.” A pause. “He’s the son of an Anders. Call him Anders.”_

_"Ah'right...Anders it is."_

_Renamed. Anders._

Injustice.

_“You know…when dealing with dimwits like this one, might just be easier to brand them from the start…before they get any ideas.”_

_"Yeah…dem tranquil are what de 'aker in-ended.”_

_At the Circle. Want to go home…try again and again – but don't know the way. Home is just a pillow and a name no one knows anymore. Cold bed. Go to bed._

Injustice.

_Locked away. Smart Mage, clever Mage. Ready for Harrowing. A demon. You have to kill the demon. It's a cat…a giant cat, but a cat. Because…you like cats?_

_“Even if you kill me – ” It purrs before your killing blow. “You will never truly be free. Eventually, you will be betrayed…either by your magic, or your rebellious desires...and then these Templars that spit on you will delight in tearing your mind asunder.”_

Injustice.

_Had to get out. Harrowed. Safer? Have to get out. Years of escape after escape…can't make a Harrowed Mage Tranquil…but they can put you in solitary confinement for a year. Madness…pain. Threats. Humiliation. Losing your mind…must escape again._

_Spending night at Warden's Keep..._

And Justice, joined with Anders’ memories, lost control – becoming Vengeance.

They were Anders and Justice and Vengeance. It was frightening for the Spirit, too. Justice had difficulty untangling which impulses were purely just, and which were Justice corrupted. Anders had less difficulty – but struggled to maintain control…especially in Kirkwall, after seeing the gallows. Justice sensed that there was something else about the city…something deeper, something more insidious than standard bigotry. Anders was not in tune to much of what Justice felt. They had come to Kirkwall for Karl – Anders would help Karl escape, and then stick around long enough to throw Templars off his trail. In the meanwhile, there were plenty of refugees who needed him. Anders wouldn't abandon them, no matter how tempting it would be to follow Karl back to Ferelden. 

Because Karl, at the end of the day, would return to the Circle. That's always how it had been. Anders dreamt of freedom in a literal sense, and Karl – having resigned himself to a life in the tower – did not. He fought for freedom politically...from within the confines of the fraternities. But he spent the rest of his time educating the _next_ generation of mages...preparing them for the revolution he was convinced he wouldn't live to see.

Karl being sent to Kirkwall was the biggest trauma in Anders’ life since being torn from his family. Frosted gray emotions…aching memories…clouded the spirit’s thoughts.

_Alone. All alone…_

_All I had._

_Cold. Broken..._

_So. Alone._

_Pity is palpable._

_Even the Templars avert their eyes from me in the hallways._

_The Enchanters are worse. They can barely stand to stay in the same room as me. …is it guilt? Perhaps Kirkwall is…different than the Circle Tower._

Heart beats faster. Feel dread incarnate weigh on your chest. Need to get control.

_Karl will be fine. Calm down. He's…he's not like you._

_But the First Enchanter hasn't smiled since he left. Won’t look at me. Heard he takes all his meals in his study, now.  What if…what if Kirkwall is worse than we thought?_

_I look for him, without meaning to. Can't stand this._

_Drowning in slow motion. What am I waiting for._

_Nothing but walls keep me here now._

Justice phased into a crisper, sharper memory – one he was present for.

_Get Karl, Give maps, Kill any Templars that get in the way. Simple._

_Then why do I feel so…apprehensive._

_The other apostate arrives…with her brother and her dog…ah, the beardless dwarf came too. They also look…apprehensive. Well. The apostate, dwarf, and mabari do. The brother just looks pissed._

Karl's frame – up ahead. Relief washes over yourself like a bucket of warm water. _Thank the Maker._

“Anders. I know you too well.” Heart stops. _That voice._

No. No, No, No, No…

“Karl – what…Why…are you talking like that?” Back turns. Karl's back turns. You see his face…but it might as well be a death mask. On his forehead is a branded bursting sun.

NO.

“No…”

Words. Figures entering the hall. But Karl is all that registers.

“Here is the apostate.” _No inflection. No emotion. Hearing Karl's voice…used like this – THIS is an abomination. THIS is a crime against the maker. There is no way that Andraste wanted THIS…_

Something is breaking.

Mind goes back to the Circle tower… _Furious mute tears line face…hiding behind the bookshelves in the library…vandalizing tomes, planning for the next escape…so angry, so alone. Then a voice._

_“Templars got you down?”_

_Vandalizing stops. In trouble? The voice keeps speaking._

_“Believe me, I know…”_

_Someone crouches into view…another apprentice, couple years older...seen him before. No, not in trouble. He's not even looking this way, really…just sort of pondering the space diagonal from head. What does he want?_

_He leans against the bookshelf, and pulls out a half-eaten apple. Juicy crunches fill the silence between us. Not looked at him yet…desperately trying to will tears dry…better no one see. The other apprentices hadn't exactly been kind._

_Time passes. He's not said anything more…he just sits there, finishing up his apple. Eventually the crunches stop, and there is silence. Nothing more happens…but eyes are mostly dry now…so chance a look up, at him, and the apple core in his hands. He isn't looking off into space anymore…his eyes are downward, somberly watching his fingers twirl the core. He looks…sad. Resigned. The twirling stops, and he looks up._

_SWOOSH_

_A burst of flame – sensation of air rushing through hair, see his hair blow back. Heat blossoms and disappears…faces quickly lit in orange yellow. Smells burnt…and…saccharine? Must have looked surprised, because he chuckles._

_“Haha…sorry about that. I'm fond of caramelized apples…can't get them here, but I can at least recreate the smell.”_

_A pause. Look down to ashes on floor....it is a nice smell. A few beats pass. He speaks again._

_"You know honestly, I don't remember if I actually like apples baked like this…or if I've even ever tried them. A few years ago, I incinerated an apple…and half a dormitory…accidentally. Wasn't as good at controlling it then…hah. But the scent it created…wow. I could smell it even among all the burnt parchment and bed coverings…it smelled just like this festival I went to with my family…back before…” He looks off for a moment, then cocks a smile. “You know. Back before I was discovered to be on the precipice of demonic possession…like all mages."_

_Surprisingly, a slight grin forms in response to his joke. Haven’t smiled in ages. He nods once, still smiling himself, looking satisfied with reaction. Then he looks down, continuing as his smile fades._

_“Ha…Pathetic, really…I barely remember anything from before the circle. But what I do remember…the smell of burnt apples…I am obsessed with preserving, and re-experiencing. Haha, seriously...I can't get enough of it.”_

_Silence. Probably should say something…but what? Forgotten how to converse…had a lot of friends once, right?_

_He smiles again…like he knows why he's not gotten a response. “Yeah, I know. Basic circle mage stuff. I guess I thought I should tell you…” He pauses, arranging his words. “Look…I know you're the one who keeps running away. You've been getting a lot of grief for it…and in all honesty, you should really stop…at least until you're Harrowed. Former-Runaway Tranquils are by far the most depressing…” His eyes wander away, then return. “But that's really not the main thing I wanted to tell you…even though it is really good advice, and even though it will definitely save your mind in the long run...” All of this comes out impressively in one breath…winded, he takes a moment, grinning before continuing._

_“Hah…anyway…the main thing I wanted to tell you is that I get it.” His voice is suddenly earnest, humbling in its sincerity. He keeps talking. “I know why you keep running away. You…have been free, and loved, and you grew up with all these…normal, non-mage dreams – and now suddenly you're here, a rotting Templar slave with the rest of us. Except you're not like us, because you remember. You're the only one here that knows what it's like to actually be a person. Of course you want to go back. You know what you lost.”_

_Silence again. Say something…really need to say something…_

_He awkwardly stands to leave._

_“Well, that's all I wanted to say. People were talking about how crazy you must be, to keep running away like this…even though the Templars have your phylactery…even though you're not harrowed…even though you aren't a noble. And I was agreeing with them…but then, I don't know, I remembered my thing with apples. How powerful the smell is…sending me into this other world…of hope and freedom and protection…” He shifts he weight from one foot to the other, voice trailing off. Then he looks back. “I can barely remember that world – but what I do remember has become incredibly…well, er, precious to me. If that's the world you completely remember…then it isn't that crazy, running away like you do. Though…I would really suggest waiting until you're harrowed.”_

_His back turns. Haven't said anything – say something._

_“Wait – er, peanuts…”_

_He turns back around._

_“Sorry – did you say…”_

_“Er…yes. Peanuts…you should boil some…it’s, uh, another festival food. You might remember more…it's a distinct smell, I think.”_

_A look of puzzlement for a moment, then his face brightens._

_“We do have peanuts…might be worth a try.” A pause. “…Would you like to come...you know, help me swap some? You can keep watch…don't want to add to that record of yours…”_

_Nod to him with a small smile. He beams a boyish grin back._

_"Great! Let's be off, then. Oh – hah, my name’s Karl, by the way. Karl Thekla. I'm afraid I don't know yours…despite the gossiping. I kept hearing The Ander? Or Anders? Is, er, that your real name?”_

_"No.” This is the moment where true name should be divulged. Can't do it. “…But Anders is starting to grow on me…though it doesn't flow too well with my surname.”_

_"Blast your surname! I mean…doesn't mean anything as a mage, anyway. Hah, Thekla…truly shameful. I wish I could drop mine. Some names stand better alone.”_

_He doesn't ask. Patient._

_“All right…I’m Anders…just Anders.”_

_He smiles back, then looks off in thought, as though internally cataloging information. “Anders…I can remember that...”_

Anders’ memory of young Karl dissipates before his eyes. The present day Karl stares at him with as much interest as a cow.

_Karl. Brilliant, witty, compassionate, patient Karl…now simple. Now reduced. No spark. No mind. Just an...idiotic, emotionless husk…Karl. They…destroyed…Karl._

_“NO!”_

White rage pulses with white blue. Justice’s own rage was gaining momentum. Lightning bolt frozen internally in place. Justice couldn't take it. _Loss. Another loss. Another scar. All the mage had._

_Injustice…._

The next memory is Anders, surrounded by dead Templars…his companions bloodied and out of breath. Vengeance…must have…emerged – judging by their expressions. But…the memory…it was beyond reach.

“An-Anders?” That voice. Even strained by confusion…it was a tone inexorably tied with protection. Pulsing affection flushed away the pain of any sustained injuries.

“ _Anders_ …What did you do?”

_Karl. Back?_ Heart racing again. _Don't count on it. Just…just cherish this moment._

"It's like…the fade itself is inside you…burning like a sun.” _Justice most likely. Interesting._ Eyes…recognition. So comforting. But…it won't…it can't…

The other apostate crinkles her brow. “I thought the tranquil were cut off from the fade forever?”

“When you're tranquil, you never think of your life before…” Karl’s voice – shaking. Not fearfully, exactly…more so out of disuse. His gaze is examining the scene of dead Templars and the Anders’ odd collection of companions. He starts to speak again. “Anders…”

Then, a sudden panic in his eyes. He's an animal about to die.

“Anders! You must kill me! Before it comes back!”

“Karl…N-No…” _Can't it last a little longer._

“You must! I don't know what you did, but it's fading!”

“Karl…I…”

_After a moment of trepidation, the other Mage steps forward. Her voice is kind, but firm._ “I'd rather die than be tranquil…Give him what he asks.”

_She's right. Even if it means…_ don't think of it, just move forward.

Toward Karl.

“Hurry! It's…” Something changes. Karl's features iron out – losing expression. “Why do you look at me like that…”

Closer. Embrace him. _That warmth…_ Say goodbye.

“I'm sorry Karl. I was too late.” Hand plunges in deep. You feel his life leaving.

_Karl. Dead._

The memory fades with a shiver.

In the wake of Karl's death, Anders became more directionless than ever. He couldn't think beyond the patients immediately in front of him – not logically, at least. He didn't know what to do with himself…Karl was gone. He had no family. Even if he managed to return to the Wardens, the old commander had long since left…and by now his friends would have followed suit.

And returning to the circle…any circle…was obviously out of the question. Anders always thought Ferelden Mage punishments were too harsh…but now he saw how naïve he'd been. He wouldn't have lasted a month in the gallows. Maybe not even a week. Kirkwall didn't care if you were harrowed…and that changed everything. The Rite of Tranquility weaponized…if only Karl had known. Maybe, if Anders hadn't been so extreme in his letters…maybe Karl wouldn't have been incited to say whatever it is he said to warrant his…elimination.

Or maybe…if Karl hadn't been so close to Anders…he never would have been sent to Kirkwall in the first place. Or…if Anders had been a more responsible Mage…he could have been sent in Karl's place. And then…he wouldn't…

Memories swarm.

_Karl…a Tranquil. No no no…_

Justice bristled at the memory. The entire ordeal had been so…frustrating. Anders’ grief was impenetrable to the spirit’s pleas of logic. Practically anything could trigger the dastardly memory. It would have been simpler if they had just found Karl's corpse. Seeing Karl the way he did…Anders was left in a state of near constant shock.

The spirit was not so shocked. Ever since arriving in Kirkwall – something seemed off. Justice felt death everywhere…old death, ignored death – massive sacrifices both allowed and forgotten. It was festering for release. Justice’s first impulse was to convince Anders to leave – the spirit didn't trust how this stale, ancient evil might affect them.

But after the showdown with Karl at the chantry...the spirit had a change in heart. Perhaps he was reading the evil of Kirkwall incorrectly. It wasn't something to shy away from – it was something to confront. The severity of rage the spirit and mage felt…it was a source of power.

There was untapped potential in Kirkwall…what haunted the city could instead fuel the voracity of Justice. Together, they could combat everything that poisoned the city and her history.

To Justice, the Kirkwall Chantry epitomized it all. A building of disgusting excess, built for a Magister whose reins of power were found in the veins of those beneath him. Now the alleged house of the Maker – home of the Grand Cleric, alleged hand of the Divine. But Elthina did nothing. For years, mages of the gallows were beaten, raped, and humiliated…or made Tranquil, so as to remove any objections to the beatings, rapings, and humiliations. But Elthina did nothing. The mages were not properly trained. And those that did pass their Harrowing were in no way safe from the Rite of Tranquility. Mages cultivate protection through sheer force of will – and here they were kept in a location literally created to destroy an individual's willpower. But Elthina did nothing.

Refugees lived in sewers, and the Chantry was a palace – but was it a sanctuary for the poor? No. It was just a palace. A shrine to the idea of an idea. The coterie was more charitable…at least they did good if hired to do so. It was members of the Chantry who incited the Qunari to breaking. Killed the Viscount’s son. Sent hundreds of desperate poor to their death in pitting them against the ‘love’ and the rest of them. Elthina was warned – but she did nothing.

Justice became obsessed with what the chantry symbolized…how it existed as an open mockery of Andrastean ideals and true charity. The Viscount’s Keep was a testament to the idea of power, and the idea of power – the nobility and guard – were kept there. The Gallows was a prison, and prisoners – the mages and lyrium-leashed Templars – were kept there. But the Chantry…a palace meant to hold the love and spirit of Andraste – instead held abandonment and falsity. It was the duplicity that insulted Justice. And he pitied Anders…a Mage, an Andrastean…for how hopeful he was about the Cleric’s ability to see reason. Justice knew the Mother’s heart was lukewarm – perhaps it boiled once, but now all that remained was serene ignorance, quiet bigotry, and resolute complacency.

There was a darkness, in the Mage – a darkness Justice didn't understand. Anders often hated himself for reasons that transcended logic. The hate, when present, was thorough and absolute – swarming his mind, wrecking his person. He hated himself for corrupting Justice. For failing Karl. For loving Karl. For attacking Ella. For not becoming a force of resistance sooner. For temporarily succumbing to the one called ‘Corypheus’ in the Deep Roads.

For setting the barn on fire. For not ever returning to his mother. For engaging the 'love' in a romantic relationship.

Justice could often negate these internalized breaks in logic – at least, he could before his host began actively ignoring him. After attacking Ella, Anders’ interior tirades of self-hatred would go unchallenged. It was a frustrating position for Justice – both the urgency of his cause and the kinship he felt to his host were damaged by Anders’ repression. Eventually though it would be this darkness and doubt that led Anders to the breaking point – allowing Justice to take the reins once again.

Extreme emotion from Anders brought Justice flickering back into the present. Something was distressing the mage. He searched those knowns which resided in the peripheral...the ones usually too extraneously human to be of any use. Flashes of complexity’s trimmings…moments.

A glimpse. _Blue._ Holding her. Overwhelmed by sparkling warmth. So _blue_. Hair falling in strokes. Wisps of lavender. Her arms draped around his neck…his hands holding her waist…that delicate inlet of her form, which he knew so well. She held onto him in absolute trust. She liked the feeling of his lips on her forehead…she liked the feeling when he whispered ridiculous nothings into her relaxed brow…so he would do this while she nodded…and sometimes she teased his earlobe with one hand, and held his arm with the other.

Justice still did not understand. He needed something more specific – so the spirit dug deeper.

_A night in particular._ Laying together. Breathing in time. Her head on my chest. One leg entwined around mine. We sleep like this when the fire’s been put out for the night. But that night I can't sleep. Taint plaguing my dreams. It’s almost pitch black in the room. Need to sleep. Relax. But instead fidget suddenly, accidentally – waking her. Guilt clouds my face. But she smiles, languidly, before looking up at me. She opens her eyes…and I see her. _Blue._ A slant of stray starlight is enough to set her gaze alight.

She readjusts herself, and squeezes me once, before falling back asleep. And _I love her, I love her…_

Justice shook away the memory…it had gotten unexpectedly vivid. But he had what he needed. It was her eyes. The 'love' had done something with her eyes. Justice knew Anders liked her particular shade of blue. _Ah yes._ He remembered seeing that. Maybe it was a glance into her eyes that made Anders succumb to her manipulation.

_No. Hawke is not manipulating me. I just love her. This is how that feels._

He speaks. He hadn't done that in a while. Justice spoke back -

_Why did the bleeding bother you? There is always blood._

_She was punishing me. She knew that it would make me sick._

_She made you sick. How is that not manipulative?_

_Because it was fair. She was being fair. I hurt her._

_No. You hurt the Chantry. You didn't hurt her._

_I broke a promise. I lied to her. So she broke a promise back._

_Which promise did she break?_

_To be careful. I made her promise to value her self-preservation._

_Why did you do that? Why was that important?_

_Because I couldn't stand the idea of losing her._

_Why don't I know this?_

_You weren't there._

_I'm always there._

_No. Not always._

And to prove this, Anders summoned a massive surge of willpower, drowning out Justice entirely. He hadn't managed that in over a year. It wouldn't last, but Hawke deserved Anders' full attention. Besides. The plan was an ending. Anders would probably die before having to answer the call of Justice again.

He saw Hawke's lower body appear in front of him. Her face began to crouch into view, but Anders kept his eyes on her feet – which stood in the pool of blood she had created earlier. He didn't feel like he deserved to look her in the eye. But then, maybe he was just afraid of what he would see.

He wanted to tell her that he knew he was wrong, that he knew he had done something inexcusable. But he also wanted to tell her that...that it wasn't him. Something had broken inside him, something had gone wrong. This whole year had been a fog of commands from a to-do list Anders didn't remember writing. Vengeance had sunk its hooks in too deep – Anders wanted to die. And Justice was willing to let him. Living like they did, it was too much.

That glare…Hawke’s eyes…combined with the smell of her own blood. It brought Anders back. Pained. It was something beyond anger – something beyond betrayal. Nothing beyond sadness, though. Her eyes reflected sadness absolutely.

The horror of his actions began to choke him.

He didn't deserve to make a case for himself. And since Justice was repressed – Anders would die alone.

_It will be over soon enough._

He closed his eyes and waited for the pain of the blade.


	5. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 400 words

Anders.

Sitting on a crate.

Head down.

Rocking back and forth.

Haha…Anders.

_Anders._

Rocking back and forth.

_Waiting. There he is, waiting._

How can he do this?

_Dagger_ _hilt cutting into skin. Pain._

How is he this gone? This detached from reality?

_Loosen your grip, Hawke._

                 Back and forth back and forth.

She'd killed for less. Everyone knew it. _He_ knew it.

_Seriously Hawke. Loosen your grip._

Still waiting. Couldn't even look her in the eye. He plans to die – without even looking at her?

_Damnit Anders_ _...ask for mercy, blame the spirit, promise not to do it again – anything, Anders, I'll take anything._

                 Back and forth back and forth.

_Hawke. You have to loosen your grip._

                 There are his shoulders. She knew those shoulders.

How could he do this to her?

_Hilt cutting deeper. You'll be bleeding again._

Everyone's eyes. Watching her…waiting for her to...

         … _What? Kill Anders?_

_That's their answer?_

How could any of them do this to her.

                     Back and forth back and forth.

_Hawke. Loosen your grip._

_You have to._

Did it truly not occur to him – did it truly never cross his mind – that she wouldn't be able to kill him?

                      What would happen to his pauldrons.

_You can't lose any more blood._

                       He had a cat once.

                       Named Ser-Pounce-a-Lot.

                       In the Deep Roads.

_That's it. A little more. Keep loosening._

Anders…?

_……No._

_That's it, Hawke._

He isn't well.

_Take a deep breath._

This isn't him.

_You're doing fine, Hawke. You're doing fine._

There is something larger at play – larger than being possessed by a spirit, larger than being angry at Templars.

Back and forth back and forth.

_Keep your blood. You’ll need it._

Into the Abyss…Precipice of Change...

_Damn Witch. She offered me her sympathies._

The witch knew.

So…nope. No.

_Haha, no._ No.

Not Anders.

_You can't afford the blood, Hawke. It'll be okay, Hawke._

_Take a deep breath._

He is still rocking. They were still watching.

_It's okay. Put away the dagger. It's all right._

Anders…

                     Back and forth no longer.

_Touch his shoulder. It will make things easier._

Hand moving toward Anders.

_A prickly sensation…then burning._

                      Feathers?

_...Damn pauldrons._


	6. Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 550 words

Varric forced his eyes to remain on Hawke and…the other one. He was determined to be ready, should Hawke turn to her friends again for their thoughts. Though Varric doubted she would. The “thoughts” they'd given about Anders a few minutes earlier had been extraordinarily lukewarm. Varric’s especially.

Perhaps if she looked again, he'd be able to redeem himself.

But the intimacy of the scene…the surreal fluctuation in Hawke's features between disgust and love…the way Anders’ frame began to vibrate when she placed a hand on his shoulders…Watching felt damn near voyeuristic.

Varric sighed, catching sight of Hawke's dagger disappear into its sheath.

Of course she was sparing him. Surely they all knew that she couldn't just… _kill Anders_.

Hell, Varric wasn't even sure _he_ could do it…kill Anders – the jolly, blighted apostate – stab him (well, Varric would shoot him) while he just sat on a crate and…waited for it. Enabling the mage’s Hawke-assisted suicide to act as theoretical vindication for the innocents he…blew up.

A sharply familiar wariness struck his left temple. Varric swiped at his forehead with the back of gloved hand. Like the headache was a fly.

_Shit Blondie. What the hell were you thinking._

He stopped swapping at his head. _Hah._ Blondie. He’d finally thought of Anders…as _Blondie_. The weird, boyish healer apostate with a bleeding heart – who just wanted to help people. Who couldn't _help_ but help people.

_Blondie_ …the crazy possessed ex-warden who liked cats and hated the Deep Roads. Whatshisname, the mage…who always lost at cards, because he couldn’t bluff to save his life.

Blondie…Hawke’s rebel paramour…who tried to give Varric a pillow last week, while Hawke, his ‘love’ stood by. He explained that the pillow had been hand-embroidered by his mother. It was the only thing he'd been allowed to take with him to the Circle. The only thing Anders had left of her.

_“And I want you to have it…”_

What the hell, blondie.

Hawke was there when Varric refused the pillow. She didn't exchange glances with him. She just looked at the ground…with a lifeless expression.

Like she did today.

Varric's being suddenly blossomed with regret. _Damnit._

_Why didn’t he stay…why didn't he force Hawke to chain Anders up in the ‘Amell Estate’ cellar-dungeon, or whatever. Why the hell did_ any _of them ever leave Anders alone that year?_

Varric clenched his hand into a fist, furious at himself. This had been such a long time coming.

_Daisy_ …the lost elf with huge eyes…destroying everyone she loved. Fenris…about to cut down his sister. Being abandoned by a family he only just discovered that he had. Revaini….lying about that blighted book for _years –_ watching Hawke become more and more personally challenged by the Qunari occupation – watching a war grow larger and larger on the city's horizon.

Varric shook his head. That's what it had been like with Anders, too.

None of them were prepared to let go of each other.

_Damn._ No, Hawke couldn't kill Anders. Not like this, not so suddenly, not when Hawke needed Anders most.

Varric continued to stare at Hawke. He was determined to carry through with an expression of support this time.

Varric’s heart pulsed with increasing ache each moment she continued not to look at him.

He'd been right. She wasn't going to even try.


	7. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 2600 words, includes long flashback

When Anders finally met Hawke’s gaze with his own…she knew why he'd kept it from her.

What a fool she’d been. All this time…somehow, she remained convinced that things would fix themselves…to her, waiting sounded so logical. She and Anders – they just had to survive the storm. Bide their time until the clouds cleared. Surely, it was all they could do – How could anyone be expected to stop a storm?

But he… he couldn't keep the storm out. She saw this now, in painful clarity. The evidence was in front of her. Hawke was touching its shoulder.

Anders was eviscerated. Gutted. Gaunt.

In the depths of his eyes swirled something devastatingly…nihilistic. His skin was gray. How had she missed it before? Didn't she notice how skeletal he'd become? Or how thin his hair had gotten? Didn't she feel him pull away?

Hawke sighed. Because of course she’d seen it. Of course she'd felt it. He didn’t even come home most nights. And if he did, only rarely would he still be there in the morning.

This…had been building up for a while. _Maker’s Breath…just look at him._

_Dried up. Grey. Rancid._

She didn't see a person she loved. Whatever he was…it repulsed her.

To Hawke’s surprise, she found her hand back at the hilt of her recently-sheathed dagger. _Haha. You're really pissed, huh?_ Hawke took a deep breath. _Remember…he’s still in there. Anders is still in there, somewhere. He still healed you. And when you willed all your rage, and betrayal, and pain into a single expression – it affected him. He shut-up after that. He couldn't look at you…after that._

Think…remember… _come on Hawke, now is the time to remember_ …what about when he saved…

_The Deep Roads…Carver sick. Your little brother. You and Bethany’s…_

Bethany.

_Black hair messy in the blighted wind._

_Does a little shrug and an eye roll at the Templar._

_“Maker sure has a sense of humor.”_

Hawke’s heart took a sudden plunge.

_Not now._

Taking a breath, she willed away her sister's face. This was not the time.

_Besides…Better to end the memory when Bethany’s shrugging mother’s shoulders and rolling father’s eyes…rather than wait until she's just a body laying there, all crumpled-up…broken, bloodied…at an ogre’s feet…where mother, cupping her head, turns to you and –_ Damn.

_Focus, Hawke._

Why was she here…ah, that's right. Anders.

_Right._ Well…He saved Carver. He saved Bartrand…he, well, saved a lot of people, really _…Maker’s Breath._

_Hawke, that's why he's a good person. Why do you love him?_

Why?

_Everything dead, dark…dusty. Killing all the time now. Have to. Mother talks about Hightown…so that's where we'll go. But…Carver is right about this place. It's parasitic. There's something…wrong, here. And the mages…those poor mages. Doesn't matter. Follow the dwarf’s plan…keep head down, stay quiet – stay out of the gallows. Get coin, find treasure, come home…and then…well. Guess hide comfortably, until the excess of Hightown rots you to nothing._

_Need maps. Warden maps. Warden is “Another delicate Mage flower.” Thanks Carver. A Mage flower healer, in Darktown. He runs a free clinic. She says it's always free. You're skeptical. It was the first bit of sustained altruism you've heard of in years. Probably some kind of scam. Maybe he wouldn't even turn out to be a warden._

_Maybe Varric isn't as capable as he seems. Hell, maybe the entire Thaig is a bust. Bah. Whatever. Bust or not, it's all there is._

_Confronted in Lowtown by a group of scruffy refugees holding weapons likely found in trash. The swords were dull…the shield was busted. One of them clutched a crumbling brick. They don't let you pass. What were they thinking? Carver is with you, with huge arms and a blade nearly as tall as he was. He could decapitate them all in one swipe._

_“Aye! Eard you en ere askin about a ealer...” The speaking man puffs up his chest, while the others look on encouragingly._

_“Well…We oh wha appens to mages ound ere…an…” He seems to lose his resolve for a moment…eying Carver’s illegal sword. Despite the fear, the man sets his jaw, and continues. “An…an e're ot going to et at appen!”_

_They're here for the healer? To…protect him? Carver sets them straight. We're Ferelden too. The group departs amicably. But…interesting. More altruism, it seems. Or at least a demonstration of genuine belief. In Lowtown._

_Go to Darktown. Find the healer behind a barely concealed false wall. The healer has blonde hair...long enough to necessitate it being pulled into a messy handful behind his head. He's leaning over a child…a refugee boy, skinny with malnourishment…definitely unconscious. Healer’s eyes are closed…features tightly wound into a knot of focus. Six or so ribbons of light connect from the boy’s body to his hands…the light seems to tremble in time with the mage’s concentration. Another man hovers nearby…the boy’s father? He seems to be holding his breath._

_The ribbons begin to vibrate more erratically…darting over the boy with increasing speed. The light gets brighter, almost blindingly so. It illuminates the “clinic.” He begins to pull away from the ribbons …straining against the strength of its electrical connection. Suddenly…a surge. The light breaks its contact with the healer – who falls backward. Simultaneously, the boy’s chest lifts to absorb most of the now unanchored light. The rest of it blasts across the room as some other kind of energy. You feel it blow through your hair._

_The man watching… remains utterly still for a moment…his eyes wide and plastered on his son._

_His son who...sits up. Sort of yawns. Looks around with a dreamy, little-boy expression. A smiling woman quickly descends with a glass of water. The father’s eyes get even wider…he looks up to the rotten, cavernous ceiling…as though it was a vaulted cathedral, worthy of awe and veneration. It's like he's seen a miracle._

_But this is only for a split second. As soon as he's verified his son’s recovery, and thanked the deity in the ceiling, he's spinning to the healer....’Anders’, wasn't it?_

_The man holds firm to the healer’s shoulders, face shining in extraordinarily pure joy as he does so…the healer has obviously been weakened and pained by the process. One hand is held up to his face…thumb and middle finger lightly holding on to the bridge of his nose…pointer finger resting on his forehead…the way people hold their head during a headache. The father helps him stay standing, and brushes off his shoulders while the healer turns around to lean his weight into his work station._

_You step further into the clinic, but are jolted to a stop by a new flash of light. The healer is suddenly facing you, holding one hand forward defensively – holding a staff out with the other. Half his form is…fractured. Blue light shines through strange cracks across his skin and clothing, as though trying to escape. It's definitely magic, but not any magic you've seen before. When he speaks, his voice trembles in a kind of fearful passion…it also seemed enhanced, somehow…as though his words had their own self-sustained echo._

_“I have made this place a sanctum of healing – ” (he takes a ragged breath) “ – and salvation. Why do you threaten it?”_

_You can feel Carver rolling his eyes from behind you. You aren't looking forward to being patient with his jives later on. You considered not taking him, but he would be furious if he thought you were trying to edge him away. Furious and devastated._

_“We’re just here to talk…” You say, automatically._

_The healer’s aura of blue settles, and he lowers his arms. His face is suspicious, but calmed._

_The dwarf…Varric…speaks first. “We're interested in getting into the Deep Roads. Rumor has it you're a Grey Warden...” He seems entirely unfazed by the healer’s whole blue-magic-cracking-through-skin thing. Impressive._

_“Did the Wardens send you? Forget it. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat.” He sighs, and looks off wistfully. “Poor Ser-Pounce-A-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads.”_

_Did you hear him correctly?_

_“You had a cat…named Ser-Pounce-A-Lot…in the Deep Roads?”_

_This conversation is not what you expected._

_“He was a gift…” He replies, exasperated. Then his tone brightens. “A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once…he swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood, too. The blighted Wardens said he ‘made me too soft.’ I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine.”_

_What?_

_“So…you came to Kirkwall just to escape the Wardens?”_

_“You say that like it’s a small thing. Yes… I’m here because there is no Warden outpost, no darkspawn, and a whole host of refugees to blend in with. And…for some reasons of my own.” His voice gets mysterious, at that last part. Oh, Carver’s going to have a field day imitating him. You decide to change the subject._

_"I've always heard joining the Wardens was for life…”_

_“That’s only partly true. The whole ‘hopelessly tainted by the darkspawn’ and ‘plagued by nightmares about the Archdemon’ parts don't go away – but it turns out, if you hide well, you don't have to wear the uniform or go to the parties.”_

_Haha. He’s funny. Almost laugh, but catching Carver’s glare out of the corner of your eyes stops you. Right…Let's get to the point._

_“We're heading an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you have could save lives.”_

_A bit dramatic…but sincerity has always been your secret weapon._

_“Hah – I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again.” Ouch. He continues. “You can't imagine what I've come through to get here. I'm not interested…” He pauses._

_"Although...a favor for a favor? Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I'll help you?” Everything costs something._

_“Get us maps into the deep roads, and I'll do whatever you ask.” A bit forward…but, really, what else is there?_

_The healer smirks._

_“You don't ask my terms? What if I wanted the Knight Commander’s head on a spike?” His tone is wry. He's not serious…_

_…Though, if he were – well, why the hell not._

_“_ Is _that what you ask?”_

_He crosses his arms. “You decide.”_

_He…Anders, the woman called him…takes a breath, and his tone becomes serious._

_“I have a Warden map of the depths in this area, but there's a price.” He paces away from you, and you move forward to remain parallel to his frame. He turns around, and continues._

_“I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend. A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The Templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps.”_

_Well…that's quite a request. And it's not even a secret?_

_“What do the Templars know of your plan?”_

_“I don't know.” Hah. Great. “I had been exchanging notes with Karl through a maidservant in the Gallows. Then the letters stopped coming.” He looks to the ground, his expression drained and worried._

_Shit. He's serious._

_“Tell me about your friend.” Humanizing the mage will help. Carver will not like going up against Templars. And you can't exactly be subtle about magic, if you're fighting with it._

_“His name is Karl Thekla. He was sent here from Ferelden when Kirkwall’s Circle required new talent. His last letter said the knight commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances in court – made Tranquil for the slightest crimes.” Anders’ voice was shaking. He took a breath to regain composure. “…I told him I would come.”_

_Damn._

_"Are these accusations true?” You have to ask…if only to have evidence that you questioned._

_“Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen made Tranquil just this year.” Passion is driving his words now. He tries to rein it in. Maybe he needs your help as much as you need his. “The more people you ask…the worse the rumors become.”_

_Escaping the Gallows... Like father._

_“You want to make your friend an apostate?”_

_Anders crinkles his brow in frustration._

_“That's such a weighted term. Yes, Andraste said mages should serve man, and not rule him. But I've yet to find a mage who wants to rule anything. It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men.” He's averting his glare…obviously waiting for some type of rebuttal._

_But…you agree. Of course you agree. You weren't expecting him to answer the question philosophically…but he did, and you agree._

_“Imprisoning mages is not the way to stop the rise of another imperium.” You say. You would go on, but Carver…well, until your relationship is stronger, it might be better to stop talking about being a mage with every other person you meet._

_Anders looks stunned, and smiles as his passion melts away into a more light-hearted expression._

_“That's not usually the reaction I get. Maybe I won't mind working with your lot after all.”_

_You smile back._

_Carver’s hating this. You push forward._

_"What's your plan for breaking your friend out of the Gallows?”_

_"I'm hoping it won't come to that. I sent Karl a message to meet me in the chantry tonight. Maker willing… he’ll be there. Alone.” His gaze shifts uncomfortably, as though unsure whether or not to say what he wants to say next._

_After this moment of trepidation, you see he face resolve in favor of speaking his mind. "But…if there are Templars with him…I swear, I'll free him from them. Whatever the cost.”_

_That's fair. The mage is obviously alone…Karl is probably all he has. You don't make saving people like that contingent on legality or level of ease. It was a risk…but…_

_“I'd help any mage in such a situation…maps or no.” You say what you think…like he said to you. Sincerity was always your secret weapon._

_“This better work out…we’re risking a lot, angering the Templars.” Carver’s not smiling like you or the dwarf._

_Anders doesn't notice. He looks relieved. “Thank you…I'll be outside the chantry after sundown. Then you'll have your maps.”_

_You nod…_

Hawke’s memory begins to fade away.

_Anders…_

Hawke closed her eyes and tried to resurrect the basis of her loyalty.

_It wasn't love…not then. It was more of a…fondness._

Hawke rolled her eyes internally. Why downplay play it?

_Okay, fine. You felt attraction. His humor pulled you in…It was ticklish – watching the jovial little way he hopped from topic to topic…one minute, he was threatening the lot of you – the next, he was cracking jokes about being “hopelessly tainted.” People didn't joke in Kirkwall…at least in lowtown they didn't. Not while sober. Definitely not while Ferelden._

_Then there was his forwardness when you asked about making Karl an apostate…he didn't hesitate. He immediately and vehemently deemed the circle a crime against mages. He…cared. Acted._

_Acted…when nobody was acting. When you weren’t acting. You cared, theoretically, but the horrors of the Gallows never penetrated the death mask you'd taking up after arriving._

_Justice for mages? So what? Hah. Any justice would be claimed only by you…no longer by you, Bethany, and Father. So why risk it? What could you even do?_

Hawke felt a dull ache of memory.

_Stagnation. Pathetic denial of circumstance._

_Everything about that year connected back to coin…getting enough gold to pay for the opportunity to get more gold. Risking our life…risking our lives after surviving the blight…all to get enough coin to get somewhere a little bit better._

_Living in filth…feeling like filth…considered filth. All of it – constant. Coming home to a disgusting hovel…eating the absolute minimum._

_Mother's eyes blaming you for Bethany’s death in every silent exchange of glances – feeling like a failure, every night you came home without some magical, solve all, Writ of Nobility from the Viscount's office. Watching Carver lose the heart he inherited from Father…and knowing he lost it because his prospects were even less appetizing than your own._

_No purpose. No happiness. Just futility…exhaustion. Hunger. You felt like you had nothing but a pulse. And you weren't even sure you wanted that._

Hawke’s heart skipped a beat as she remembered something.

_You couldn't feel anything…You thought numbness was preferable to pain. But that night…at the chantry…you saw Anders realize that Karl...a person he loved…had been made Tranquil. And then…you saw Karl brought back. Overwhelmed with wonder…and terror. He begged to be killed. He'd rather not exist than exist…like that.  Anders obliged._

_He gave you the maps. And then, he stuck around – helping anybody who needed it._

_Because Anders…didn't care if anyone knew how much he cared. It was a calling. It was a mission._

_His motives were clear._

A pause in thought.

_Are clear._

A pulse of affection flooded her system. Hawke took her hand off the dagger for a second time, and let out a deep sigh.

_Damnit Anders._

He still was looking at her. So Hawke conjured up an expression of support. She forced the corners of her mouth upward…the bare minimum of what could conceivingly pass as a smile.

“Help us fight the Templars.”

Something changed on Anders face, and Hawke wasn't sure she liked it. _Surely he couldn't think…couldn't delude himself into believing she…_ Hawke stopped herself.

_Don't worry about what he thinks, or what he thinks you think. You'll deal with it later._

“I didn't think you'd let me…”

Hawke wasn't listening to what Anders said. It didn't matter. She'd deal with it later. Warily, she eyed the route to the docks.

_If there was a later._

Suddenly, a tall mass of shimmering white armor was blocking her view of lowtown.

Sebastien.

Hawke pinched her arm in preparation, trying to ensure she was awake and alert. She could make an argument, if he made her…but surely...

“No. You are not letting an abomination walk free. Either he dies, or I'm returning to Starkhaven.”

Although Hawke’s brain wasn't done processing what Sebastien had said – her hand had instinctively tightened its grip on Anders’ shoulder.


	8. Varric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastien demands Anders' death. Hawke Refuses. Varric Watches. Approx. 1200 words

Seriously. _This_ was when Sebastien was going to take a stand? Who the _hell_ does he think he is?

Varric could barely even hear Brother Big Lips over the buzzing of anger storming his interior.

Sebastien brought his face close to Hawke’s – whose entire body was now shielding the crumpled up healer behind her.

His tone was low, like a growl.

“And when I return – I will bring such an army that there will be nothing left of Kirkwall for malificarum to rule.”

Hawke stared back at Sebastien. Varric was tempted to shoot Sebastien right there – but he knew that would only…well, make Sebastien another victim of Anders insanity. Varric shook out his neck. He wouldn't allow him the dignity of being a martyr.

Hawke's tone was even and emotionless. Anders silhouette was frozen behind her.

“That's not how we do things here, Sebastien. You want Anders dead? Then come fight me for the honor.”

Sebastien eyed Hawke's staff and blood magic scars. Her expression was haggard and an open challenge. He spoke again.

“I am…the last of my line. I am not risking my life…my family’s entire lineage…over that…that _thing_.” Sebastien's expression of uncertainty transformed into one of strained anger.

Hawke's expression didn't change at all. “You won't risk your one life. But you'll risk hundreds of others? You'd burn down an innocent city, looking for him - But you won't try and kill him yourself?”

Sebastien's face grew even more strained.

" _Hawke_...he...he..."

“I know, Sebastien.” Hawke let her face soften for a moment. Varric almost rolled his eyes – it was a classic Hawke move. She was a master diplomat. Hawke spoke again after _just_ the right amount of pause.

“You don't have to forgive him. But if trying to kill…” Hawke's voice broke off. This was not a tactic, and Varric could tell Hawke was surprised that she had been thrown off by something so simple. She briefly closed her eyes, and swallowed hard in place of saying Anders’ name. “If trying to kill... _him_ isn't worth your life…then, I don't think it's worth his, either.”

Sebastien fidgeted in frustration.

“Then…you leave me no choice. In the Vael name, I _must_ avenge the Grand Cleric.”

There was a beat of silence – when Hawke threw her hands up in a sudden, unexpected expression of emotion. Her eyes were wide and wild.

“Then avenge her! Now. Right now. If you truly think Anders must die – then do it! If your convictions are pure, then it shouldn't be a problem, right?”

She stepped out from in front of Anders. Who flinched a bit at Hawke's receding shadow, but otherwise remained unresponsive, staring abjectly forward…possibly holding his breath.

Sebastien's eyes widened and he took a step back impulsively. His gaze then resettled into a glare which flitted back and forth between the mages in front of him.

Somebody screamed from faraway, and Hawke stamped her foot in frustration – an action that left scorch marks in its wake.

“We don't have time for this! Sebastien - he's right there. If you think it must be done, then try and do it..”

The Prince looked at her skeptically, and continued to deliberate.

There was an explosion somewhere in the distance, and Hawke lost her calm.

“Maker’s Breath Sebastien! We have to go! Why don't you learn something from the late Elthina and _Pick. A. Side._ Fight, damn it!”

Varric heard Merrill and Aveline wince somewhere behind him. He couldn't blame them. Varric himself had to set his jaw and clench his teeth to keep his own inappropriate laugh to himself.

Because it _wasn't_ funny. Right? Everyone eyed the prince in anticipation.

Hawke's eyes had lost their fire…sinking away from eye level, heavy with weariness. She knew she had crossed a line. Sebastien would almost certainly leave.

Sebastien turned and eyed the scruffy crowd he'd – as Isabella would say – “ran with” for over six years. The Prince lingered on each face momentarily – but without meeting anyone's gaze. Varric had an uncomfortable suspicion that they were being measured.

The Prince sniffed once, and turned back to Hawke. After a beat, Sebastien spoke.

“How _dare_ you invoke…even _say_ …the name of the Grand Cleric. You… _malificar_.”

“I…was out of line. But…Sebastien. We have to go.” Hawke nodded, but her voice was defeated and distracted.

“You think I won’t fight? Then you’ll see…you and your…precious Anders. When I return, I will show…you, and _it_ what true Justice is.” Sebastien gave Hawke a final look of disgust, and turned to leave.

Hawke looked to the side for a moment – then ran to block Sebastien’s path. His hand shot back for an arrow – but Hawke shook her head, and rose her own hands in sedition. Sebastien's frame remained tense, and he glared at Hawke expectantly.

“I know I probably won't change your mind, Prince Vael. But I have to try, for the sake of history.” Hawke nodded in Varric's direction. The dwarf stood a little straighter. “So please. Listen. We, all of us here – including the so-called abomination – have killed, and risked our lives, for you. We put our lives on the line – for you. Can the same be said for anyone else in your life?”

Hawke let this sink in, and continued. “We didn't do it because you're a Prince, a Brother, or a damned good shot with a bow and arrow. We didn't do it because you're special. We did it because we – all of us, together – are special. We were there for you, because we assumed you'd be there for us in exchange.”

Hawke gestured to Varric and the others.

“Look, Vael. They all… _hah_ , they've stayed.” Hawke crinkled her brow as though realizing something. She looked at her friends. “Thanks for that, by the way.” She turned back to the Prince.

“Maybe it's a little for the adventure, maybe it's a little for Kirkwall, maybe it's even a bit for… _Justice_.” Hawke took a moment to look soberly at nothing in particular. She returned her gaze to Sebastien. “But mostly, Vael, _Sebastien_ – they've stayed for me. Because of what _I_ care about, because of what I'm willing to…and quite possibly might… _die_ trying to do. You aren't alone in thinking this is mad. You aren't unique in wanting to hurt the… _misguided individual_ who…made us pick sides earlier than we wanted. The only difference is that you’re the one who insists. You're the one who won't save lives unless another is taken.”

Sebastien glared past Hawke, and spoke with condescending detachment.

“I thought I could bring some of your… _heathen_ lot closer to the Maker.” The prince shot the group a sneer. “Obviously, I was wrong. They, like you, and _this whole city_ , are damned.”

Sebastien began to walk around Hawke, who raised an eyebrow, and moved in front of him again.

“I thought as much. Fine. I wish that was all, but you are also the only one who has _threatened us all_ with the very title _we_ put you in the position to reclaim. So hear this, _Prince Vael_ – if you actually give a damn about your lineage, and truly intend to one day conquer Kirkwall, then you better hope I die today. Because I've invested too much to not return…eventually.” Hawke’s eyes flashed red and Sebastien jumped as a pile of rubble ignited in flames.

The Champion shook her head, and stepped out of Sebastien’s way, turning to watch him go. As his pace quickened, Hawke's face formed a mean smile. “The path to Starkhaven is north – just run away from the fires and screaming civilians, and you should be there in no time at all!”


End file.
